


the necromancer

by godcheekbones



Category: EXO (Band)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-13
Updated: 2017-04-13
Packaged: 2018-10-18 10:26:53
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,225
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10614993
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/godcheekbones/pseuds/godcheekbones





	1. Baekhyun

**1 Baekhyun**

**XXX**

 

The kitten had been run over.

It was a mess of matted grey fur and russet streaks on the asphalt road. Black tyre streaks ran vertical lines over it, adjoining what was once a living, breathing body into part of the dead road. Roadkill. Nobody had cleaned it up yet. It was barely noticeable, really, so close to the drain at the side of the sidewalk. In fact, one or two more steps and the kitten would have been out of harm’s reach.

A man noticed the kitten though. He sat down by the edge of the sidewalk, propping his elbow on his knee as he studied the poor creature before him. He wore an all-black ensemble, with black pants, black button-down shirt and a black tie that nearly touched the ground as he hunched over. He would have looked like an ordinary office worker, albeit with particularly morbid colour combination choice, if he did not have the grey wooden staff he held with his right hand. He poked the kitten’s remains with the end of his staff, and a dim light glowed at its end. The man could only just perceive what was left of the kitten’s face, as a whisker twitched, and a raspy meow regurgitated from its torn throat. The man grimaced, and jabbed at it again. The nail-scratching meowing stopped abruptly.

The man stood up, bored with his little experimental antics. He adjusted the tie at his collar and brushed away the stray cat hair on his pants. He caught sight of his reflection in the store shopfront. He paused, taking in his gaunt profile. His cheeks had sunken in so that his cheekbones were protruding almost painfully from his alabaster skin. At least, there weren’t any dark circles under his black-rimmed eyes. Obviously. Necromancers did not sleep after all.

“Looking good, Byun Baekhyun,” he remarked, the sides of his mouth twitching upwards. He watched his reflection nod back at him.

 

Baekhyun had an irrational liking to the expression ‘famous last words’. The living seemed to yak away endlessly. Even with their heads full of stuffing, this reflected in their spitted words. What made their last few words so so-called significant then? It was like saying the single last sentence in a book far outweighed the rest of the plot of a staggering three-inch thick book. So when the opportunity arose to talk to the undead, Baekhyun snatched it. He was still looking for someone with something worth to say with their last dying breath. Having an eternity to live gave Baekhyun the luxury to make it his, well in a sense, life goal. He went around graveyards, studying the carved epitaphs on the crumbling, rusted tombstones. If one caught his eye – say, the person died premature or in a freak accident –he would crouch next to the patch of overgrown weed atop the grave. Muttering a string of words that only he understood, he stabbed the centre with his staff. Then, he hung around to wait. The undead were still as unbelievably stupid as they were as breathing humans. It would take them a while to dig out of their rotted coffins.

It disappointed him sometimes, when his powers were not strong enough that day to completely regenerate the corpse’s body. It disturbed the corpse, ruining whatever snatches of sanity still lingering like a sliver of meat on a rib. Then, it would just become an animated skeleton. Baekhyun whacked those with his staff. Contact with the staff took away the necromancer’s spell to them, and they collapsed into a heap of pale bones that gleamed in the moonlight or simply dusted into fine black powder. The hard whack was merely for self-defence. Necromancers lived forever, but that was about the peak of the perks. Blood and exhaustion still came.

His best conversation so far was with a Chinese man. He died only a year ago when Baekhyun had his way with him. Zi Tao punched through his splintered coffin fast enough to surprise Baekhyun, who was hopping along the marble cracked surface like a child playing hop-scotch. Tao had snapped, “Get your frozen feet off my fucking property.” The thermostat Baekhyun had brought along slipped through his pianist fingers. The two of them watched silently as the last dregs of the murky brown coffee seeped into the spidery cracks of the marble. Tao jumped up and brought his hands up to strangle the pixie-like necromancer. Baekhyun ducked just in time. Murder attempts happened often enough. Humans liked the saying ‘do unto other what others have done onto you’, or some variation of the sort anyway. They had come to a mutual liking towards each other, when Baekhyun quipped, “At least the coffee will keep you awake” and Tao replied, “I was sleeping perfectly fine for the past year, dumbass, before you came”. Baekhyun was almost sorry when he had to put Tao back to sleep, as he called it. It just would not do to have zombies running around town.

 

People had their favourite books. The rough texture of the thicker inked parchment, the wicked words in tiny fading printed font, and the musky smell of old books seasoned with dust and thin fingers running down the worn pages and broken spine.

Baekhyun had his favourite graveyard. It was a patch of land respectfully ostracised from the rest of the city. There were dark trees that guarded the souls called back home, their branches like outstretched bony fingers splayed out to ward off all bad. The caretaker was already hunched over, feeble with knobby knees and wisps of white hair peeking out from the liver-spotted head. He was too old to bother with the dead leaves scattered, leaving leaf litter worthy of an ancient forest. The crispy crunch of the dried, brown leaves beneath Baekhyun’s bare feet at every step thrilled him gently. The wind blew; sweeping up the smaller leafs in an elegant twirl. They gave illusions of life that Baekhyun was remained cruelly fascinated by.

 

You see, a long, long time ago, the necromancer happened to wake up on top of a small mound on the edge of a forest. He was shivering in the cold of the night. His fingers flexed, and touched the edge of the grey staff. Baekhyun stumbled upon a dirt road. He might have walked for days. The first person he saw was a pint-sized man with too-wide eyes, carrying a canvas sack over his shoulder. He was evidently travelling. Baekhyun shouted to him, running forwards, forwards --

_Swoosh!_

He fell right into the man’s body. He might as well have been dunked in cold water naked, and then whipped, eagle-spread, against a blast of strong wind. Baekhyun tumbled onto the ground. He stretched out his hands to protect his stricken face. There were blood red scrapes against his raw skin. Baekhyun was hurt, but he hurt _so badly_ on the inside. He repeated icy-cold experience several times before he threw in the towel on mingling with the living. He could eat, but he did not need to; he could curl up on a bed, huddling into himself, but he would not sleep. Years, decades passed. He settled for the undead as companions. He yearned for that one more conversation; that would make him feel like a _person_. A person someone could see. A person someone wanted to talk to.

A friend.

 

The kitten was merely a failed attempt at looking for a pet.  
  


 

**XXX  
  
**

 

Baekhyun rubbed his palms together, breathing onto the trembling fingertips. He watched as his breath freeze in white condensation in the cold, before fading into the night nothingness. It was one of his bad days. The solitude clung onto his frame like a child would to a mother. His fear of being alone personified into a rough-edged rope, suffocating him. Baekhyun started rocking back and forth on the heels of his feet, trying to shake away the pressing weight of his unwanted feelings. _Think good, Baekhyunnie!_ he told himself. He wrapped his arms around himself in a sort of lonely hug, squeezing tightly.

“ _Sehun, ah_!” called a gentle voice. Baekhyun looked up, startled, at the same time as the boy across the road. Sehun stood awkwardly by the traffic light, his hands jammed inside the pockets of his army green jacket. He was tall and lanky, with dark brown hair that fell into his narrow eyes.

A second boy was running to him, from the gates of the university campus that opened to the streets. Baekhyun then realised that Sehun was waiting for this boy, probably fresh out of cram school. Sehun’s face broke out into a smile, making him look younger. The second boy did not stop running. Baekhyun sucked in his breath suddenly. He hated this part. The expectance of bumping into someone, only to fall into _nothing_ , with only the hard unforgiving ground rushing to his face…

Baekhyun turned away.

 _Thud_!

“ _Luhan_!”Laughter drifted whimsically in the air. Luhan had crushed Sehun into a hug, toppling them both onto the ground. The younger boy protested, grumbling about the crushing weight, as he pushed Luhan off. The latter picked himself up easily. Sehun scrambled to his feet, slipping on the icy pavement. Baekhyun watched as Luhan caught him under his arms, from the back, and it became another hug. They held each other for a stretched time, quietly revelling in each other’s presence for the moment, at the end of a long day.

Sehun’s face was pink from the cold. “The weather is freezing. You made me wait so long.”

Luhan pulled back. He covered Sehun’s hands with his own gloved ones. “Warmer?” he asked, concerned.

“Mmm. Let’s go home.”

 

Baekhyun looked down at his empty hands. The skin almost translucent; so that the thin blue veins could be seen skating across the white surface. Dead, lonely hands. Tears leaked from the corners of his eyes. Before they had a chance to splash onto his pale cheeks, they froze on his dark eyelashes.

 

**XXX**


	2. Chanyeol

**2 Chanyeol**

 

Baekhyun was mildly obsessed over flowers. It stemmed – pun unintended – from the influence of a young florist named Jongdae, who came to Baekhyun’s graveyard every Friday. He brought a wick basket, with fresh flowers tucked in it. He walked slowly to the other end of the first row, pausing to nod respectfully at the other fallen men.

Jongdae stopped at the regal tombstone. He reached out to brush off the dirt from the white tombstone. He bent down, taking out the brown, shrivelled-up chrysanthemums from last week and tossing it into the basket. Then, he just stared at the tombstone. Baekhyun looked at him worriedly, behind the tombstone with his staff tucked under his arm, and his weight on both hands pressing heavily against the header. Jongdae was normally more talkative and cheerful, albeit cursed with a lame sense of humour. All of a sudden, he tipped over. Baekhyun cried out in warning, but Jongdae stumbled. He turned his fall into an ungraceful way to sit down on the hard ground beside the grave. Jongdae looked up at the evening sky, for a long while. The sun was setting, washing the sky with yellow, orange and crimson watercolour tones. There was not a cloud in sight. It was a beautiful transition to the night.

“Jongdae-ah,” Baekhyun murmured, moving to crouch beside the man who could not see him. “Are you okay?”

Today, there was a bouquet full of white roses. Slowly, Jongdae stretched out his dark blue denim-clad legs in front of him, so that the basket was in between them, and he could work comfortably. He pulled out a sheet of shimmery black tracing paper from the bottom of the basket. “Hi Junmyeon,” he began conversationally, his voice breaking already. He stopped abruptly, shocked at his own change in voice. Then, he carried on, as if nothing had happened.

“Did I waste my time on you?”

 

Baekhyun fell hard on his bottom, shocked.

 

Jongdae was crying, but muscle memory trained his hands to remain steady as he lifted a stalk. He picked up his blue scissors and snipped off the excess length. “You fucking inconsiderate man,” he slurred, placing the white rose onto the black paper. “You left me. This is my forty-eighth batch of fucking flowers. That’s exactly one year, Junmyeon.”

The vanilla scent lingered in the florist’s hands, even as the foul words spilled from his mouth.

“One year ago you left me. And you know what happened to me today?” he sobbed, putting down another rose. “Remember Kris? He’s the really tall man; who like French roses on Monday and chocolate latte at four in the afternoon every other day.” Jongdae wiped the corners of his eyes with the calloused heels of his hands. “He _proposed_ to me today.

I swear to you, Junmyeon, I never intended anything to happen between Kris and I. He was just… _there_ for me every day.”

Baekhyun looked up at that, one eye half-shut. “Like how Junmyeon can never be,” he understood sadly, but Jongdae could not hear him.

“And it was beautiful; he had a flower wreath with baby blues interweaved with white magnolias and he was giving me that smile- the kind where the side of his mouth quirks upwards reluctantly, as if he doesn’t want to smile, but he couldn’t help it and suddenly he’s smiling so wide and happily that it _hurts_ \--

He didn’t know,” wailed Jongdae, throwing down the scissors in sudden agitation as he recalled the tumultuous day’s events. “I didn’t tell him about you. Why did he have do it _today_ of all fucking days?”

He was becoming increasingly incoherent. His bony hands became a flurry of motion, as he grabbed the tape and started to wrap the elegant white roses into its sheaf. His breathing became rapid and shallow as he patted down the tiny petals, stroking its silk texture. He took out a pen knife from the basket to cut away the rest of the unused paper. “This bouquet is beautiful,” Jongdae choked, momentarily side tracked by his own professionalism, holding the bouquet close to his chest. He buried his face in the white to inhale the pretty scent, letting the petals catch the teardrops.

For a while, there was only heavy breathing, before it evened out.

“I would have said yes,” Jongdae continued, in a calmer tone. “Eventhough I can never love him. He would look after me, and take care of me. Because I’m a fucking mess, you see. Your things are gathering dust in my room, and I still haven’t made your side of the bed, ever. Every day I wake up to the stupid collage of Polaroid photographs you hung on the wall, the one we took in all the countries we visited together…

I’m not the quiet, mannered florist that Kris thinks I am, Junmyeon. I’m the air steward, with the brilliant sense of humour, happily engaged to the pilot Kim Junmyeon, who has the best, kindest smile in the world. I’m the man who fell sick this day last year so I wasn’t on the plane with you--”

 

“Jongdae--” Baekhyun cried out in alarm, stretching his fingers. It fell through Jongdae’s hand. “What are you doing?”

Jongdae was grasping the pen knife so hard that his knuckles turned white. He was looking at it with a different kind of intensity. Then, experimentally, he flicked it downwards. An angry red gash appeared on his wrist.

“Stop! STOP THAT!”

“I never did get over you,” Jongdae breathed. His jaw became set, and his perfect bow lips thinned into a determined line. “I’m still using present tense for you. I’m waiting for you to come home, and dump your luggage bags on the sofa, and look for me in the bedroom to check if my fever went down yet. I’m so screwed up; I’m just watching myself go through life like a broken person, waiting to shatter. I _hurt_ _every day_. ”

As if to convince himself, he slashed downwards again. He gasped, and tears rolled out of his eyes squeezed shut. A spray of russet splattered onto the white roses, tainting its pureness, but still looking oh so pretty.

Baekhyun started screaming at the moaning man. He wanted to swipe away the weapon, but his attempts to wrestle it away remained futile.

The air became filled with shouts and screams from Baekhyun, and low moans and gut-wrenching sobs from Jongdae. The crows, agitated, cried out and took flight to the night.

Then, a white light started radiating from his staff. Baekhyun looked down, and panic took hold of him. He was not mastering his powers -- _what would happen_ \--

 

**XXX**

 

“You’re too old to be on the swing set, mister,” informed a bossy voice. Park Chanyeol lowered his long legs, so that his right canvas sneaker dug through the white sand and anchored him down. He grinned at the teenager in front of him. The younger boy had folded his arms, his feet apart, and his red cap tucked low so that the wide brim covered his eyes.

“Dibs, I got here first,” Chanyeol teased cheerfully, nudging the boy with his leg. “Shoo.”

The boy gave up all pretences. “Hyung, it’s my turn,” Jongin whined. He walked to the spot behind Chanyeol’s swing and gave him a mighty shove. Chanyeol gripped the metal hangings tighter, but the teenager was strong. He toppled over easily.

When he fell on the ground, the sand softening the impact that caused pain to momentarily shoot up his left shoulder, he felt the earth tremble. Chanyeol looked around, his brows furrowed in confusion. Shockwaves rippled the air around him, the fast wind roaring in his ears. They lasted for a few seconds, wave after wave overwhelming him, paralyzing him to the ground.

Chanyeol blinked, and the black shadows moving in front of him dissolved to form Jongin waving his hands in front of Chanyeol’s face, his eyes wide. The ringing in his ears faded away, and he could hear Jongin speaking frantically. “Are you okay, hyung? I didn’t think I pushed you so hard!”

“No--” Chanyeol propped himself up using his elbows. Adrenaline surged through him. “It wasn’t you.” He gripped Jongin’s arm. “It-it’s a necromancer. He’s gone out of control.”

Jongin’s jaw dropped. As the younger brother, he was privy to Chanyeol’s ability. “What does that mean? The walking dead all around us?”

“We need to see the mess he made,” Chanyeol bit his lip. “And I’d have to get him. He broke the Rule.”

 

Meet Park Chanyeol.

Necromancer hunter.

 

**XXX**

 

The damage got worse as Chanyeol and Jongin weaved their way deeper into the circle radius. It evolved from mere cracks on the weathered stone, to crumbling headers, until they made their way to the end of the first row. There was a splintered hole in the centre of the grave. A grown man in a pilot uniform was cradling a man in his arms.

The blast of the necromancer power was enough to fully reconstruct his perfectly proportioned face. Junmyeon brushed his fingers into Jongdae’s black hair, mumbling a year’s worth of words. The latter looked like he was asleep peacefully in his lover’s arms. His white t-shirt was blood-soaked on the left side, and made crimson stains on his jeans.

“Chanyeol!” Jongin whispered, horrified, staring.

Junmyeon looked up at the sound of his voice. There were tear stains shining on his scrubbed cheeks. His eyes turned from Chanyeol to Jongin. Then, his face clouded over, and he appeared to lose interest in them. “Please watch what you’re stepping on,” he said simply.

Jongin’s gaze dropped to his feet, and he lifted his foot gingerly. There was a red rose, half-squashed. He swallowed, as the discolouring extended from the edge of the petal and dripped onto the ground.

“Are you the necromancer?” Chanyeol asked numbly. “Is he- dead?” He gestured to the man in his arms.

Again, Junmyeon’s gaze tore away reluctantly from Jongdae to focus on Chanyeol. His hands, though, never stilled. “He’s dead,” Junmyeon stated, misery echoing hollowly in his soft-spoken words, “but so am I.” He jerked his head to the header. “The man you’re looking for is behind. Now please. Leave us alone.”

 

There was a young man curled up into himself, hugging his grey staff to his chest. Layered brown hair fell into his glassy eyes.

Chanyeol kept his distance. His ability was passive – one touch from him and the necromancer would cease to exist. It was a piece of knowledge that was innate in him, not learned, and tried and tested only twice before. The necromancer could hurt him with the staff though.

“You lost control of your powers,” recited Chanyeol hesitantly, and watched as the man’s shaking shoulders come to a still as he stopped breathing in shock. “You broke the Rule. I have to put you away.”

Baekhyun raised his chin, and Chanyeol recoiled. He was death and grief in human form. That was the description of necromancers drilled into Chanyeol. But the man before him… he was beautiful. He was grieving. Yes, he was death and grief – but not in the intimidating black-robbed images that Baekhyun’s predecessors fashioned themselves. Baekhyun stared at Chanyeol for a long, long time, his eyes bottomless.

“You can see me?” Baekhyun asked in a small voice. Astonishment was written all over his face.

Chanyeol nodded, bewildered at the reaction. Where was the scar-faced, jaded old man? Who was this boy, barely a young man, with sad brown eyes?

“You’re going to kill me?”

Nod. It came slowly.

Baekhyun’s face crumbled. “I don’t want to go,” he whispered to himself. “I haven’t found my best conversation yet. I don’t want to have wasted all these years.” He sniffled to himself, and rubbed his nose blearily on his sleeve.

Of all people, Baekhyun did not understand the finality of death. He was a necromancer after all. He did not even know how it was like to fall asleep. He was terrified, of falling into pitch black, never to awaken again. He closed his eyes, his dark eyelashes fluttering against his cheeks, as he readied himself.

 

**XXX**

  

“Hi,” the deep voice said tentatively. “My name is Park Chanyeol. I’m twenty-three years old. I have a younger brother named Jongin. I had to sit on him to make sure he went home, after the ambulance took Jongdae away. I hope Junmyeon is okay now.”

“Hi,” replied a shy voice, “My name is Byun Baekhyun. I don’t know how old I am, but I’ve been around for a long time. I wanted to have a kitten, but that didn’t work out. I didn’t expect it to anyway. Junmyeon is sad. So am I; Jongdae was a nice person to listen to every Friday. He really loved Junmyeon a lot. I think he’s been broken for a long time, and I don’t think he could be fixed anymore, not without Junmyeon. This is a nice place. Where did you take me?”

Chanyeol sat on the white sand in the playground, shifting his weight to sink further in comfortably. Baekhyun was swinging gently on the swing set, in the same seat that Chanyeol had vacated just a while ago. He was smiling slightly, enjoying the novelty.

“We’re on a beach. You can see the sunrise soon. We’re not at the ocean, exactly, but close enough. You can see the water, right? Peeking out from behind the trees?”

Baekhyun hummed in agreement.

Chanyeol sifted the sand on his hands, and let watched it fall down steadily. “What do you want to talk about, Baekhyun?”

“Anything,” Baekhyun enthused. “Everything!”

And they did.

 

Dawn came quickly. It intermingled with deep-throated, and light, laughter. Baekhyun watched the sky in fascination.

“I always came out at night,” Baekhyun admitted in wonder. “It’s more comfortable for me. I’ve never seen a sunrise as beautiful as this, or at least, it would have been too long ago for me to remember.”

“But the nights are getting colder! We’re going to winter soon.”

“That’s true,” Baekhyun agreed. “Hey Chanyeol. Push me on the swing?”

“Your legs too short to propel you?” Chanyeol evaded the grey staff thrown at him, laughing smugly at the weak attempt. He stood at the spot behind the swing, and held on to the metal hangers.

 

Then, a pair of cold hands firmly covered his own. Chanyeol’s hands were large, proportionate to his tall frame, but Baekhyun’s small hands fit into the palms of his own like they were made for each other. Baekhyun interweaved their fingers together.

“Baekhyun!” cried out Chanyeol, in shock.

“So this is what’s it like to hold a person’s hands,” Baekhyun noted to himself dreamily, ignoring Chanyeol. “It’s so warm.”

“Baekhyun, _do you know what you just did_?”

“Push me on the swing, Chanyeol. Please. The wind isn’t so cold today; it feels nice on my face.”

Chanyeol obeyed, with turmoil of emotions inside. Baekhyun smiled. He was already fading quickly, with warm rays of sunshine passing through him and burning accusingly onto Chanyeol’s skin.

“Higher!”

 

Baekhyun’s fingers slipped through a human’s hands one last time.

 

Chanyeol stood by the quiet playground. Birds were already chirping, greeting the fresh morning. The empty swing shifted slightly in the wind.

 

**THE END**


End file.
